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TW! Panic attack, mentions of self harm. Don't read if these things trigger you. I'll put a warning when it's over.
Josephine blinks once more, determined to focus on Slughorn's lecture. Her gaze drops to her notebook, capturing some of the key points he is making.
Regulus, on the other hand, seems completely disinterested, engrossed in a discreetly read book. They are seated toward the rear of the classroom, safely hidden from the professor's view.
Her curiosity leads her eyes to sneak a peek at the book, revealing it to be a romance novel. Surprisingly, it is rather captivating, one she hasn't yet had the pleasure of reading. She quickly averts her gaze before Regulus can catch her looking.
As the professor announces the end of the class, Regulus tears his attention away from his book to gather his belongings. Together, they make their way out of the classroom.
Finally, Regulus inserts a bookmark into his book and closes it.
"There's a party happening in the Slytherin common room tonight," he mentions.
"That sounds like fun," she mutters with a hint of sarcasm.
"Would you like to join?" he inquires.
She narrows her eyes thoughtfully, weighing the prospect of attending a loud party against staying in the comfort of her dorm to read. The sole incentive for attending would be Regulus.
"Do you want me to go?" she questions with an arched brow.
"I know neither of us is particularly fond of parties, but I have to maintain my image with the other Slytherins. If you'd rather not go, that's perfectly fine," he reassures her.
"I'll go, on one condition," she states firmly.
"Name it," Regulus responds.
"I want the option to retreat to your dorm whenever I please," she insists.
"Agreed. Our other dormmate is rarely around anyway. It's mostly just me, Barty, and Evan," he confirms.
"Alright, then I'll see you later," she replies.
TW starts here.
Josephine turns a corner, making her way toward her common room. If she is honest with herself, she has the knack for ignoring her problems for extended periods, only for them to resurface in the most inconvenient of moments.
Like right now. She stands near a wall, and it all comes crashing back at once—the things she has been avoiding for days. She needs to find a quiet space, darting through the crowd of students until she reaches a bathroom.
Her breath quickens, and upon entering a stall, she slams the door shut and sits down on the toilet.
"Just breathe. You're being foolish," she whispers to herself.
Fumbling with her tie, she struggles to regain her composure. Her eyes grow blurry, so she closes them and attempts to take deep, calming breaths.
Merlin, how she despises guilt. It's like an unyielding ocean that allows her to float for a while, only to pull her under, engulfing her in its depths.
She feels utterly undeserving of it all—the goodness, the kindness.
As the bathroom door creaks open once more, she instinctively covers her mouth, urging herself to remain silent.
This entire situation triggers a sense of déjà vu. Back in third year. She recalls the relentless panic attacks, the desperate escapes to the girls' bathrooms.
Her thumb brushes against the scar on her cheek, and she almost flinches. It has healed, but a scar remains—a mark she both despises and appreciates. The twinge of pain often reminds her of something she had done back in third year.
Self-harm is no stranger to Josephine. There were instances in third year, a few more in fourth year. Each a form of self-inflicted pain, though different from the casual nail-picking she occasionally indulges in.
The sound of the door closing signifies that the other person has left. She berates herself inwardly, urging herself to stop being so dramatic.
She wipes beneath her eyes, leaving behind a smudge of mascara on her finger. Finally, her breathing begins to return to some semblance of normalcy. Josephine makes sure the bathroom is empty before she dares to open the stall door.
Approaching the mirror, she re-fastens her tie, her hands resting on the sink as she gazes at her reflection.
A fleeting urge to laugh surges within her. She lets out a soft, humorless chuckle, attempting to rectify her makeup. However, wiping beneath her eyes only seems to worsen the mascara.
"You're okay. You're okay," she repeats to herself. But as soon as she closes her eyes, vivid images of Serena and Aspen's faces flood her mind.
"It's your fault!" they scream. Their faces are etched into her memory—the curve of her mother's nose, the shape of her father's eyes.
She snaps her eyes open, hastily fixing her makeup. Then, without further ado, she makes her way to her dorm.
